North of Flagler Street?

So the times may be a changin' for this very happy as things are Daddy in the USA...

Last night we attended seder 1.0 at D1's suegros. They are so warm and loving...and cool. Jackie and Ricardo are in the process of moving out of their Aventura condo -- to a house just a block or so away from D1 and Joey -- in Miami's Upper East Side. Their oldest, Bob, and Vera, due with the first grandchild in August, live in Morningside -- mere blocks away.  The youngest is Alan, and he lives in D1 and Joey's current building in Midtown...

Well, D1 and Joey plan to start a family, and Jackie, wisely, wants to be close to the action. D1 adores her -- and Jackie is careful to be an excellent suegra -- told D1 she would never come over uninvited, and will only help as requested. D1 replied that if she woke up and Jackie was in their bed with them, she'd hug her and make her coffee...So there's all this closeness going on.

Enter Wifey, and her strong desire for a "change" and to be closer to the kids as well. We also know that when D2 and Jonathan return from their NYC sabbatical, they ain't moving South, either -- all the young kids seem to love Midtown and Brickell areas.

And then yesterday Wifey found a house she KNEW would appeal to me -- 1926 med style, totally renovated (by the classy looks of it, I'm guessing by gay guys) on a double lot in Morningside.  The place is smaller than Villa Wifey, but has a guest house that Wifey is already selling as a man cave for me...And the price, while still quite high, has been reduced a lot. Wifey and our long time friend Allison, who is a broker, will go check the place out.

But I love where I live! I was chatting with Ricardo, and he said "David, but being close to your beloved family..."  I mean, it's not like we live in a different county -- without traffic Ha! Pinecrest is only a 30 minute drive.  I guess we'll see...

The seder was lovely. My son in law wrote a new haganah, a sort of Cliffs Notes version, which we all read and got through in less than 30 minutes. He dedicated it to his beloved maternal grandfather, who died 5 years ago. I could tell the abuelo, Joseph, was quite a guy. His son in law speaks of him in glowing terms.

Joey's big brother had to attend on the couch -- he snapped his achilles tendon, and just had surgery. Poor guy was in a lot of pain, but still participated. Vera is pregnant.  We told Bob he needs to be fully healed soon.  He understood...

On the way home, I reflected on domicile.  Since I moved here in 1979, I have always, except for college summers, lived South of Flagler Street.  The months in Kings Point were the worst -- I never felt at home in my Mom's condo -- a place she loved. It was essentially a huge parking lot with some blocky 2 story condos in the middle -- and the folks were some very cranky elderly Jews.  I used to get yelled at for washing my car on weekends -- as if I was going to hurt the asphalt with the hose water...

But I lived on campus in the Gables, and then in Kendall, first with Eric and then Wifey. Wifey and I owned two houses also in Kendall -- what they now call East Kendall, to differentiate the area build before the sprawl all the way west to the Everglades...

Then in 2000 we moved to Pinecrest -- also way South.  I've always felt comfortable here, although never really excited about it. It's suburbia, and I've been a suburban guy. Wifey says it's time to change...

So we'll see...maybe she sees the Villa Wifey of Morningside place and gives it thumbs down.  Moving to the Grove remains an option, too -- also South of Flagler, but not by as much...

I guess the coming days will show...

Emancipate. Emancipate. Dance to the Music

And so this is Passover...and what shall we do?  The point of the holiday, as I have learned, is the seder, which is Hebrew for "order." The scholars teach that it is such an essential holiday to my Tribe, we must follow the order of remembrance, to properly celebrate our freedom from slavery.

Well, I wasn't raised in any religious way, but I do remember family seders. We'd have a family dinner with matzah, and soup, and brisket.  One favorite bit of family lore is the first year my Catholic raised brother in law Dennis was invited. He went to a bakery and somehow found a stray challah -- bringing it proudly to the seder. My parents laughed and explained to him that the holiday was one of no bread -- Dennis, befuddled, had been told challah was "Jewish bread" - what was the problem?

When I got to college, Eric's family took me in, and had me to their family seders. They were joyous -- Eric's Dad Marvin happily leading the service, and mixing in tales of why the Dolphins were better than the Jets, and in any event the Miami Hurricanes were closest to God.  The Dachshunds, always a fixture in their house, were also given starring roles.

Wifey's parents took over Passover duties after we were together. I think 1985 was my first seder with them -- the year before, Wifey and I were just dating. My mother in law was a great Eastern European cook -- and she made fresh gefilte fish -- which my mother savored. Each year there would be a care package of many more portions. When my sister and her family moved to Florida, they were invited, too, and they always hated having to transport the leftover fish home to Palm Beach County -- fearing it would spill and turn their car into one their cats would love. I don't think their fears were ever realized.

Later, we would have seder duty --- we would bring in the food from local places, but my mother in law would always make her fish. The other night, Wifey and I were reminiscing about how much my mother enjoyed it. Before the holiday, my mother in law would send Richard, my father in law, to Deleware Farms -- the purveyor in Broward. She would lovingly make the fish for Sunny.

The Ds would make the books we'd use -- the haganahs -- and the services would be short. We'd get in the message, but not really go through the entire seder.  Still, they were warm memories.

This year, the second in a row, we'll be attending with D1's in laws. Jackie and Ricardo are so loving and welcoming. And this year, we have much to jointly celebrate. Joey's brother Bob is going to be a Dad -- Vera is pregnant. And D1 and Joey are watching their first house being built -- it's supposed to be finished this summer.

Joey's parents have learned that high rises aren't for them -- they just bought a house in NE Miami, very close to their boys and daughters in law. Wifey is pressuring me to do the same.  We'll see -- if we get blessed with grandkids, well, the move will probably happen, but for now we'll be making the drive up the Palmetto for the holiday.

Second seder, tomorrow night, we'll be with our adopted extended family -- Paul's son's Alex's in laws. They live in a spectacular house in Miami Beach -- we went there last year, too, and they follow our style -- short on service, long on food and laughter.

Paul is always called upon to lead the seder, and it becomes a race against his fellow father in law Bob, who likes to speed things up. After laughter and eye rolling, the meal takes place -- but the message to the kids indeed gets through .

Last week, Rabbi Yossi stopped by our office, with the special matzah used only for Passover. He found Stuart, Vince, and me in the office, and we talked about the holiday. Vince is Irish Catholic, but raised by Jesuits, and pretty knowledgeable about Old Testament stuff. He grew up in LA, and so has Jewish humor in his veins. He loved Yossi's Bortsht Belt joke.

But Yossi also told a meaningful tale -- about a young rabbi whose life goal was to see Elijah, the prophet who, according to tradition, visits each seder. His senior rabbi told him to see him, to bring a box of food and clothing to a poor family, and attend their seder.

The young rabbi did -- but no -- no sightings. He was told the next year to visit again -- and he did - and the poor family's son pointed at him and said to his parents "Look -- Elijah is here again!"

The moral is, of course, that if you want to see an angel, you must become one.

It's a message I like this year, as I continue my quest for true mental freedom...

Taxing Times

So it's tax season, and for me this year things were simple.  My personal CPA Mark and I had our annual meeting, followed by lunch, and then he called to deliver the news.  Turns out I actually get a refund this year -- thanks to some large charitable gifts, and the kindness of Hurricane Irma, which gave us substantial uninsured losses.  In that regard we were lucky, the Trump tax changes eliminate the deductions next year -- we would have owed money.

D1 is married to a CPA, though he doesn't practice, so one of my charges is off my responsibility list. Joey does their tax returns, and as with most things, he's careful and conservative.  My oldest is in fine hands.

D2 is not married yet, and so still on the Dad plan. Her returns were actually more complex, as she still lists Florida as her permanent home, but lives in NYC, and works in NJ.  So she has to do THREE returns -- federal, NY, and NJ. She was shocked to learn she has to pay the Garden State for the privilege of taking the PATH train under the Hudson and working in Hoboken.

It's clear to see why more and more business folks are abandoning NY for Florida -- the tax situation there is really untenable. This last Winter is also taking its toll -- it's nearly April, and they still had awful weather last week.  I'm hoping all of this drives my girl and her man Jonathan back to the 305 sooner than later.

So I spent a solid hour Saturday finalizing D2's tax forms -- as I age and get less sharp, I need to double check stuff I do.  There were current tax payments, and of course estimated payments for the '18 tax year.

As I finished, Wifey reminded me of other daughters of friends.  Their Dads do virtually nothing for them.  And the girls still idolize their fathers. We have one friend up North whose girl is getting married this summer. She insists on having her father walk her down the aisle -- not her mom, even though the Dad is a deadbeat who STILL owes child support dating back to the early 2000s, and mom is paying for the entire wedding. 

Point is, I could have saved tons of effort and money and still my Ds would adore me. Nah! That would remove the essence of who I am -- I wouldn't have it any other way.

In a slightly related matter -- our neighbors invited us to a fundraiser -- to build senior housing for LGBTQ Jews. At first, I thought it was a joke, but it isn't -- apparently aging gays and lesbians need, it seems, their own Miami Jewish Home, or Palace.  Really?  I mean -- the money they saved by not raising children, and they're still broke in their golden years?  Such are our times, I guess...

All I know is, Passover is approaching. This year we're invited to first seder at Joey's parents, in Aventura.  They're so warm and loving -- we look forward to sharing the evening with them. D1 has lucked into these people.  They're moving to a house just days after seder -- and D1's Suegra still insisted on hosting.  It'll be a lovely evening.

The next night we're going back to Miami Beach -- La Gorce - for a most upscale seder hosted by Paul's son Alex's in laws.  They've adopted us, too -- the Ds consider them their true extended family.  Bob and Lisa host my kind of seder -- dash through the question part, and get to the eating and sharing of company.

Following that -- we travel to NYC.  D1 and Joey go up Thursday to spend the night in Ds and Jonathan's Greenwich Village apartment, and then Wifey and I come Friday, and I move us all into the Edition -- my new favorite NYC hotel.  D1 has a tight itinerary -- Tenement Museum, lots of meals.

D2 and Jonathan scored a reservation at Carbone's -- THE Italian place in the Village. You need to luck out to get in -- our dinner is at 9:30 at night.  Saturday, I was with Paul visiting our friend Alan -- he's been there twice.  He tells me I'm going to love it -- the best veal parm he's ever eaten, and Alan is a Parm maven.  There will be characters there , he said, there's one table where the real big shots eat, overlooking all the other tables.  I'm really looking forward to living out my inner Tony Soprano that evening.

So Spring is here. Taxes are done and paid. Passover awaits.  All is fine.

Boyhood Fantasy

So it was mostly a sick week -- Wifey got a terrible head cold and ended up giving it to me, so I can never say after 31 years of marriage, she never gives me anything. That joke actually went over well at Dr. Mary Cross's office -- I visited after three days of coughing -- she gave me antibiotics that I know were probably not needed, as well as some cough medicine with codeine, which was.  Still, I had committed to a road trip Thursday, and I rallied myself -- I needed to fetch D1 at 530 am.

It's funny that I even call it a road trip -- we were just going to Northern Palm Beach County -- but over the past few years I have become THAT guy -- the one who rarely travels north of Miami, and when he does, gets all grumpy about it.  I used to handle cases all over South Florida, and aging Mom lived in Delray, requiring frequent visits, but now that she's gone, and I rarely travel for cases, I tend to stay closer to home.  I lease a car now for 10K miles per year, and that's enough.  Wifey drives barely 5K miles per year.

When we see friends from the northern counties, it's usually at a Miami event -- like our beloved Canes games.  I do go to Gulfstream and, on occasion, Anthony's Runway 84, but in my mind those are honorary Miami addresses.

So I was off, and the early trip reminded me of how traffic used to be in Miami.  I made it from Pinecrest to D1's in Midtown in about 20 minutes -- during the day it's much closer to an hour.  I need to do more of my daily routine before 6 am...

Off we went -- up I-95, headed to the Miami Marlins Spring Training Camp in Jupiter. They're a client of D1's, and she got permission for me to hang around.  After a stop at a Starbucks in a strip center that looks like every other one in Palm Beach County, we passed the elderly security guard with the heavy Boston accent, and parked across from Mattingly's spot.  The amazingly nice Asst. GM, Brian, came out, gave me a security pass, and insisted on showing me around.  I begged off -- I was just the driver, but Brian was from Indiana, and classically Midwestern nice.  He told me the new owner, Jeter, insisted that minor leaguers RUN from place to place -- the Majors guys had earned the right to walk -- and I noticed the military feel of the camp.

D1 went off for three and a half hours of meetings -- they're going to use her quite a bit it turns out -- but I was free to revert, in my mind, to a joyful 9 year old.

Although I love football because of the Canes, baseball was my first love. I played Little League since I was 7, and tried out for and made my high school team, as a decent fielding, decent hitting, and amazingly SLOW first baseman. Also, when I was 8, the hometown Mets had a miracle year, and won the Series. I remember being let out of third grade early that October of 1969, and racing home on my bike in time to see the clinching of the game -- Cleon Jones caught the final pop out and went down on one knee. It was religious for my 8 year old self.

So I sat on the aluminum bleachers, watching the major leaguers work out -- batting practice, fielding practice, bunting practice. I imagined one of the coaches called me over, said they needed help, and my life took a turn at that moment -- playing first base solidly, and eating better thanks to the team's dietitian.

The hours flew by. It was chilly.  Some of the younger players ran by, and greeted me as "Sir" - probably thinking I was some owner representative.  I smiled and gave a hearty "good morning" in response.

Also, the guard had me go inside -- a reporter was looking for me. No -- really. Our doctor Mary Cross's husband Glenn is a MLB reporter -- he was inside -- Mary had told him I was coming. We warmly introduced ourselves -- he's a sweet guy. He went to LSU but lived for many years in Houston -- the Astros won the ring last year -- he reminded me that his team and the Mets came into the league the same time, but the Stros had never won until then.

Classic baseball. Two middle aged Americans immediately had something in common to talk about.  The beauty of the game...

I told Glenn I would get him and Mary Canes tickets and have them to one of Norman's tailgates this year -- they had been to a Dolphins game but never Miami. We also agreed not to make fun of whichever team loses in Dallas in September -- our schools open up against each other.  And he told me the Fish would be just fine in a year or two -- Jeter was bringing the new discipline -- and we had the best manager, Mattingly, in baseball.  I hope he's right.

D1 was chatting with a tall muscular fellow -- I recognized his California accent right away. Sure enough -- he was a top pitcher. Then we chatted with Pittsburgh Ty -- D1's supervisor -- the man who retained her. Also a great guy -- lives in Little Havana -- still loves his Pirates and Steelers, though he's a thorough Fish man now.

We left, and drove an exit south, stopping in a strip center that looked identical to the one with the Starbucks. D1's like me -- total Miami person. She thought Jupiter reminded her of Jacksonville, which she visited during college at UF. She had a point -- though there weren't the southern accents.

I dropped her and drove South through Wynwood. The contrast with Jupiter was stark. Color everywhere. Funky looking people. A guy in a huge Lincoln SUV cut me off. I was home.

I stopped by the office and shared my experiences with Stu and Vince. Stu grew up a Phillies fan -- Vince, from the OC, is all Dodgers. Again -- the commonality of the game.  We agreed to go to some Fish games this season -- when the Phils and Dodgers are in town.

So it was a banner day for this aging guy, who realized he still loves baseball.  If only I could have beat out more of those infield throws...

Erin Go Bragh

I grew up in working class Long Island, and probably until junior high school though everyone was either Jewish or Catholic.  I guess I had one friend, Lee Ann, who was Episcopalian, a religion I found hilarious because its name contained the word "piss."

My closest early friends were either Eastern European Jews, or Italian, or Irish.  Actually, one friend, Mark, had an Italian mother and Swedish Dad, though Grace, the Italian, was the dominant social force in the family.  Her husband Bob was only made fun of for how taciturn he was -- when the kids grew up and moved away, Grace divorced Bob -- who moved to St. Louis.

But the Irish culture was a big deal.  My earliest friend was named Monahan, and his Dad was a fireman in Brooklyn.  My father wasn't a drinker, but Bobby Monahan sure was.  I remember being 8 or 9, and invited to stay for dinner, which I loved because Mrs. M was Italian, and thus a wonderful cook.  But Michael and I had to walk down to the Pin Up Bar, or P.U.B, and fetch Mr. M.

It was a smoky place -- half of it was for NYC cops, and the other half for fireman.  I learned early that the two, though a mutual bullwark against chaos, didn't like each other much.  We'd find Mr. M, and the fellow firemen would tussle Mike and my hair, and Mr. M would say "Did here is Dave -- my boy's Jew friend."  The guys would laugh, and ask if my Dad was a doctor or lawyer.  Nah, I'd answer -- just a salesman.

It's funny, but I never felt their talk was at all anti semitic.  It was just busing balls -- the Italian guys were WOPS or Guineas -- the Irish were "thick Micks."  I was always comfortable with political incorrectness.

More -- I was attracted to the culture of the bar.  I adored my Dad, but that wasn't his milieu.  He was happier alone, reading a book.  Hanging in a bar, busting balls with your buddies -- well, it attracted me early and still does.

And today is St. Patrick's Day -- a holiday I always like to celebrate, at least a little.  My favorite one was about 15 years ago. I was in NYC for work, and stayed at the Plaza.  The huge parade was right in front, on 5th Avenue -- an endless sea of NYC firemen and cops, all ruddy faced in the cold mist of a typically cloudy March NY day.  I had time to kill, and watched them march by -- lots of bagpipes.

A LI cop was next to me, and said something I think about today: bagpipes sound cool for about 15 minutes, and then you want to strangle the piper to make him stop.  I loved that line.  I went into a bar off 5th and had a terrific time -- after the parade, I took a taxi back to LGA.  I guess the day brought back memories of my childhood, and Mr. Monahan -- long since dead.

Today Wifey and I were supposed to go see Judy Collins, the long post menopausal folk singer Wifey likes because she sings Joni Mitchell songs.  The show was set for last month, but the 78 year old Collins hurt her wrist, or something. It was rescheduled for tonight -- down in Homestead.  I figured we'd get some Mexican food, see the show, and maybe stop off at Mike's --- he's hosting a party.

Not so fast.  Wifey got a bug and is recovering from it.  I had her give away the tickets -- no way I wanted to go without her.  Maureen and Dave jumped at the chance -- being of the appropriate age to enjoy Judy Collins and all.

I may head over to Mike's for a drink or two -- he probably has some St. Paddy's Day stuff to offer.

No green beer, though.  That's just an outrage...

The Long, Long Mitzvah

A friend and colleague underwent spine surgery a week and a half ago -- poor guy walked bent over into a comma shape, and was miserable.  We joked about him going to see the best spine guy there is -- he's a strong Gator fan -- but things worked out.  He had the surgery and woke up not peeing in his pants and able to feel his toes -- when that's the case post spine surgery, it's a good result.

He called last week to ask if I could take him for his follow up appointment.  I could -- it was at 1:30 and I made a haircut appointment for 4.  Turns out that was a strategic error -- academic docs ALWAYS run late.  Still...

I was thrilled when my buddy walked outside.  He was vertical, for the first time in months, although a bit slow moving.  Clearly, he could have taken Uber, but he's old school about stuff like that.  No problem -- I had the day clear.

We stopped for breakfast, and then drove to the former Cedars -- now UM Hospital.  The place is Shalala's folly -- she stupidly overpaid millions for the place after her ego prevented her from buying Doctor's Hospital in the Gables, which would have made more sense.  UM is still digging out of the financial hole caused by this, and I suspect it will become a major issue as Shalala runs for Congress -- but as we learned recently in US politics, real issues don't seem to matter.

Our nation elected a cartoon character, Donald Trump.

Anyway, we found our way to the Neurosurg clinic -- and I noticed the patients were a nice cross section of South Florida.  I overheard a Mrs. Howell type, dripping with jewelry, telling a new fellow waiter that she had driven down hours this am because "It turns out there are no competent spine surgeons in Palm Beach."  She's probably right.

There was a Chinese family there -- the grandma was in a back brace.  The nurse came out to get her, and the daughter got up to go along -- the nurse said patient only.  The daughter said "OK -- but she only speaks Mandarin."  The nurse wisely reversed course and invited the daughter inside.

The 1:30 appointment finally occurred after 3:30.  The UMH guys really are the best, and worth waiting for.

I texted my haircutter, and told her I was doing something I abhorred -- canceling an appointment.  She told me no worries -- she'd prevent me from looking like a gray haired version of a young Bob Dylan on Friday...

While my friend was seeing the doc, CNN was showing The Donald somewhere in the Southwest inspecting prototypes of the Wall.  He was checking out the concrete structures like he was looking over complicated equipment.  I laughed out loud -- and as soon as I did, realized maybe I shouldn't have -- I mean, some folks still believe in The Donald.

Nah.  Everyone of my fellow waiters shared the sentiment -- older Cuban folks shook their heads at him, the Chinese father waiting for his family said "We came to this country for HIM?" and Mrs. Howell said "God help us all." 

I was warmed.  Maybe the end of the national silliness is in sight.  The Boss sang "Maybe everything that dies someday comes back."  I hope he's right.

So it ended up being an entire day in the can.  I guess it's a mitzvah to take someone for a medical appointment -- so mission accomplished.

On the way home, I kindly and calmly espoused the wonders of Uber to my friend -- he can now drive again, anyway.

And besides, I got a happy peek at hopefully the coming political backlash...

Wedding With Old Friends

So Wifey met Jeannette in Junior High School in Brooklyn -- around the same time she met her BFF Edna.  I met Jeannette in '83, when she came down from NYC for a visit -- she was married to Bob, and they owned a breakfast and lunch place in Queens.  A few years later, they moved to the 305 -- Jeannette's parents, her Cuban Jewish Dad, and Honduran Jewish Mom, were living in North Beach, along with Larry, Jeannette's mentally ill brother.

They're delightful people.  Samantha was born a few years after the move, and we watched her grow into a delightful woman.  Her younger sister Erica, just a few months younger than D1, likewise blossomed into a terrific young lady.  Sam is now a family lawyer in town, and Erica is an exec for a Miami tour company.  Last night Erica got married.

The Ds and Sam and Erica grew up together. Sam was the elder stateswoman -- she babysat the younger girls, and last night D1 was remembering how D2 was their little mascot -- the one asked to play inanimate objects when they put on their many shows -- a la Gilda Radner's famous SNL skit.

So last night Wifey and I drove up to Miami Springs -- to the Curtiss House -- a restored historical property where, that's right, Glenn Curtiss lived until his death in 1930.  He build a Southwestern style adobe place, for reasons known only to him.  Then again, he also build Opa Locka -- an Arabian themed city in NW Miami.  Neither vision took off as well as Curtiss's planes, but his mansion exists, right on the Springs gold course, and it was a lovely venue.

Chairs were set up under a bower of trees.  The skies threatened rain, but never came through, thankfully.  Samantha performed the ceremony.  It was lovely.

Erica married Rene, a young Nicaraguan American fellow who was first her friend at the tour company.  It was a recapitulation of her parents' story -- Jeannette and Bob met as co workers at a Brooklyn movie theatre, in the 70s.

After the ceremony, we repaired to the courtyard of the mansion, and a food truck parked outside fed us as we drank and caught up.

D2 was unable to attend, but D1 and Joey Ubered over.  D1 and Samantha relived their childhoods.  It was moving.

Erica's best friend from Palmetto Middle gave the maid of honor speech.  She's a white Jamaican, and told a tale of thinking she had met a fellow oddity -- Erica was blonde with corn rows --  Ashley figured she was Jamaican, too.  Ashley promised she would murder Rene if he ever hurt her sister of another mister.  Rene said he wouldn't disappoint her -- and planned to stay alive.

We left before the Cuban dancers performed -- we drove D1 and Joey back to Midtown -- Dadber is better than Uber.

On the way home, Wifey noted how we rarely see Jeannette and Bob lately, but when we do, we pick up as if there had been no time passing.  She's right.

So another young couple has only just begun, as the Carpenters sang.  It was lovely to be a part of it.

The Non Trip

So Dr. Barry and I realized we had blown the strategy on seeing our Canes in the ACC Tourney, but figured we'd go anyway.  We were both to leave Tuesday am, MIA for me, and FLL for him and his wife Donna.  Not so fast...

AA texted me Monday night, telling me that the awful weather expected Wednesday in NYC allowed me to bow out with no penalty.  Barry called right after I got the text -- we agreed to bag the trip.

Barry's boy Josh helped with the particulars -- he knew an AA Elite number to call to deal with the cancellation -- it made a 30 minute wait into a 15 minute one.  Then I called the hotel, and even though I was within the cancellation period to pay one night, they understood.  Ain't nobody got time, it seems, for NYC in March.

And Josh is helping with the sale of the tickets -- he already sold one pair, and has me UPS ing the remaining ones in hopes of selling them, too.

I felt bad about not seeing D2 and her man, and sent a surprise to them to be delivered next week.  I think they'll enjoy it.  More importantly, the whole family is going to NYC in April -- hopefully during a more humane weather time.

It turns out the weather today is pretty nasty. We'd have been prisoners of hotels, only to emerge later for dinner.  It seemed fated to cancel the trip.  And the blue skies and cooler temps only added a punctuation mark to that.

So it'll be April in NYC.  May that be in the fates...

Ride On Down Into This Tunnel of Love

So yesterday was easy...like Sunday morning.  I enjoyed hanging around, and begged off the weekly Sunday trip to the Palace to see ancient suegra.  Wifey went, and had a pleasant non visit -- she took her Mother to the old movie playing, got her some popcorn, and left a satisfied 93 year old.

I took a serious dog assisted nap, with the Special Needs Spaniel and Weird Rescue dog.  They're world class nappers, and kept me company as I drifted off to a Smithsonian Channel documentary about WW II.  I'll be at the beaches of Normandy in just over three months.

Wifey returned, and we left to fetch our friend Diane in the Grove.  We were meeting Paul and his lady and her sister at the Palm.  I love that place, and like to keep it special -- I go a few times a year so I can really appreciate it.  Plus, you need to take a second mortgage to pay the bill, so it's a good idea to keep the visits to a small number.

It was buzzing, as always.  Wifey loves to go since it's one of the few restaurants left in Miami where we are among the youngest diners.  The place is old school, and expensive, and tends to attract that sort of clientele -- former Northeasterners who miss an authentic NYC steakhouse.

We all enjoyed each other's company -- it was nice to catch up.  Before I knew it, I realized we had been there over three hours.  Before we left, we chatted with our old, dear friend Allison's father Sy -- a Palm regular.  He was there with his lady friend and 2/3 of his kids and a few grandkids.  Sy is a retired doctor, and always a perfect gentleman.  I enjoyed seeing him.

On the way home, Wifey drove, since I had 2.5 martinis, and no longer take any risks in that department.  Between Wifey and Uber, there is really no reason to risk a DUI -- I'm too old to spend a night in jail.  Plus, a friend's son up North just started a prison sentence of 7 years last week, following a guilty plea to DUI Manslaughter where he hit a van and killed two people. His Mom was devastated about his going to prison.  Had it happened here in Florida, he'd be going away for a lot longer.

Anyway, Wifey noted that she and I were the only two of six at the table who had never been divorced.  I'm not sure why that is.  Yeah -- I sort of do.

We both come from parents who were married forever -- literally until death did part them.  My parents nearly made 40 years before my Dad checked out of this mortal coil. and my in laws nearly reached 70 years of marriage before my father in law died.  I guess that background has a lot to do with it.

I guess another factor is that both Wifey and I  are generally chill and amiable.  We let things roll off our backs.  We also greatly fear the idea of dating at this stage of life.

Diane told us horror stories of trying to find a suitable man.  Most fellows of her age group want much younger women.  It's tough out there.

Though it's much easier for an older dude who isn't broke ass to find ladies, for me the thought of taking on someone's "luggage," as my mother in law calls baggage -- no way.  Raising my Ds was the best thing in the world -- but I don't want to do THAT again.

Yesterday I heard screaming from next door.  My neighbor Alfredo was outside with his baby kids.  Dude is my age, and running around after toddlers, and hanging with babies.  I greeted the very tired looking fellow, and shuddered to myself.

Meanwhile, I'll be leaving early tomorrow to travel to NYC for the ACC Tourney I won't see.  Damn Canes got too high of a seed -- Barry and I were convinced they't play Wednesday or early Thursday, and planned our travel accordingly.  After a cascade of unlikely events -- not to be.  We're trying to sell our Tourney passes, and will make this just a NYC regular trip.

I told D2 I'd travel to Broadway Wednesday and see if I could score tickets for a show.  Years ago I learned that if you go to the actual box office the day of a show, producers often turn in prime seats that very day -- and you buy them for face value.  I remember getting front row for "Frost/Nixon" -- Frank Langella spit on me the entire performance.  The person next to me had bought her tickets 5 months earlier -- for triple face value.  When I told her my situation, she was none too happy.

So I'll see if that works Wednesday.  If not -- I get two dinners in a row with my beloved D2 -- and meals with my nephews of a different DNA brother.  Who cares about the 34 degrees and freezing rain?

Declining Parents and the Breakup of Families

Yesterday was a gorgeous Miami day, as the remnants of a nasty Nor'easter made their way South, and left us with cooler temperatures and low humidity.  Still, I was called indoors at noon, to Shula's, where I met a very old friend who I converted to a Canes fan.  We sat at the bar and watched our boys win again.

On the one hand, I was happy, but as things turned out later, I was bummed.  I bought tickets to the ACC tourney in Brooklyn, and was sure the Canes would play the first three days.  Their success has given them a double bye, so I won't get to see them before I leave for home Thursday night.  Still, I have plans to meet Dr. Barry and his family -- Barry made the same strategic mistake -- and now there will be TWO dinners with D2.  Once again, my sports prognostication fell short.

But more significant was a long talk I had with my friend.  He's the oldest of three successful brothers, and his parents are retired and, pursuant to Federal law, living in Boynton Beach.  They're aging, and his father in particular is declining.  And my friend, since he lives in South Florida, is bearing the brunt of the burden of the parents.

He spoke to his brothers, and asked for some financial help.  He got wimpy replies -- kids in private colleges, big mortgages -- we'd LIKE to help you, but...

I told him he needed to call a brothers' meeting, and set things on the table.  If his siblings don't step up to the plate, it will result in the end of their relationship.  It's just the way things go in modern America...

And then last night Wifey and I met long time friends for dinner in the Grove.  Dr. Lew's Mom died last year, and his brother was likewise barely involved in her care.  And then after the Mom died, he became resentful that the lady hadn't left him more money.

Lew was more successful than his brother, but the younger sibling was by no means a loser -- long time federal employee, with a fat pension awaiting his retirement.  But he always resented his brother's doing better, and had the attitude that Lew owed the failing parent more than he did.  The two will likely never speak again.

I always joke that my generation of late Baby Boomers was given a manual for life -- and it talked about getting a college and grad school education, marrying someone who'd make a good life partner, and then raising happy and terrific kids.  The manual left out the part about dealing with declining parents.

Many of my friends nonetheless excelled in that area.  Paul was the most devoted son of anyone I know -- and Eric and Barry were (are, in Barry's case) likewise dedicated, loving, and great.  And all of them had siblings who fairly shared the load.

A few months ago, I ran into another friend's younger sister, in town from the Midwest.  She was telling me how she felt bad for her brother, who is local and heavily dealing with his newly widowed mother.  The sister has younger kids, and a full time job.

I asked if I could offer advice.  Yes, she said.  I told her to do whatever she could to share her brother's burden -- take the old lady to her house frequently -- come here for visits whenever possible.  She adores her brother, and they've always been close.  Beware, I warned her -- the decline of their mother can lead to a breakup of their sibling relationship.  I know this too well...

We joked with Lew and his wife last night that of the many things I love about Wifey, the fact that she's an only child is high on the list.  Yes, we had the burden of her father without anyone else, and are still dealing with her Mother, who is 93 and seems like she may well reach 100.  At least there's no sibling anger or resentment -- taking care of parents is a Top 5 Commandment, and Wifey does it well.  It is my duty to assist, and I do so -- she is always amazed I rarely beg off visits to the Palace.  I would rather be many other places, but it's the right thing to do.

Yesterday reinforced the truth that for many, caring for declining parents is something to run away from.

Garden Party

...is the classic song by dead too young Ricky Nelson, in which he recounted appearing at a concert at MSG and got booed, since the crowd was expecting the clean cut early 60s star and instead heard a grown up, hippie, country rock singer.  The message is one of my favorites: "It's all right now, I've learned my lesson well...you see you can't please everyone, so you've got to please yourself."

That lesson hit home yesterday for my beloved D1.  Wifey, the classic stage mother, sends D1's nutrition blog to as many email addressees as she can.  Apparently one was sent to an aging Cardiology Assistant professor at the U, and he took issue with one of D1's suggested menu items -- the fresh for St. Paddy's Day "Leprechaun Omelette."  The dish has spinach, to make it green, of course, as well as feta cheese.

Well the good doc, who I'll call Carl, since that's his name, was highly offended.  He wrote D1, who he's never met, a nasty email.  He began by listing his many academic titles and credentials, and then said he was "disheartened" that anyone who cared about health would ever recommend a breakfast with eggs like that -- eggs are, to him, essentially poison, as they have cholesterol.  My favorite part is his word choice -- he shall forever more be known, to the extent we talk about him, as the Disheartened Cardiologist.

Well, D1 was livid.  I told her I needed more data before weighing in on this kerfuffle -- so I went to my brother Eric, who happens to be the most brilliant Cardiologist there is.  Nah, Eric said -- Carl was off by a decade or two -- modern research shows eggs are fine, in moderation. The state of the art view is that fat, with carbs, turn into bad cholesterol. Dr. Carl was angry based on circa 1980s research.

So D1 is right, clearly, and the self proclaimed super genius is wrong.  And, the way he wrote to my girl shows he's a prick.  He's also old AF, as the millennials are wont to say.

But this will not escalate. I advised D1 to write back, most obsequiously, and say she was flattered that a man of such lofty medical position would even take the time to read, and even comment, on her blog.  But, she will write, the basis of her recommending the  now libeled Leprechaun Omelette is current food science.

Wifey suggested D1 send the fellow a carton of eggs, with happy faces painted on them, and a note "We are your friends.  Do not hate us."  I think D1 will refrain from that.

But of course the real issue is Ricky Nelson's message.  When you put your thoughts and opinions out there, you become a public writer, and readers get to send in, essentially, letters to the editor.  You need a thick skin.  D1 is developing one.

So this will just go down as another little dust up in our world.  But I may, in fact, steal Dr. Carl's verbiage, and write a children's book geared to future health care providers.  My message will be -- don't be a self important asshole.  If you take issue with someone's advice, be nice and classy.  Invite debate.  Don't talk of your own brilliance and then take shots.  The book will, of course, be titled "The Disheartened Cardiologist."